


Into Each Life

by Chelle1117



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:25:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelle1117/pseuds/Chelle1117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you planning on doing something you don't want to blame on alcohol?"  There's no smile on John's face, no touch of humor in his eyes. He softly whispers, "Yes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Each Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SGA_Saturday community on LJ. This hasn't been beta read, except by me. So if you see anything that needs to be corrected, please feel free to let me know, you know, in a nice way. :D

There are clouds rolling in on the horizon, and as Rodney scans the beach, he can't find John. The waves have been getting steadily higher and more turbulent as the day wore on, and now the sun's setting behind the edge of the ocean and letting the coming storm roll in without a fight.

Rodney looks down the beach again, frowning. Finally, he sees John's board; it's mostly on the sand, but the back end keeps sweeping in and out with the ebb and flow of the tide.

Reining in his panic before it gets the better of him, Rodney reaches inside the French doors and grabs the binoculars he keeps on a table for just such occurrences. He adjusts them for distance and scans water, looking for a dark figure bobbing amidst the waves. It's just a precaution; John's been surfing nearly as long as he's been alive, or so he keeps telling Rodney, and he has yet to be towed under. Still, Rodney takes his time, watching each dip and swell for a lifeless body. After an interminable ten minutes, he's sufficiently convinced that John hasn't met some tragic end amongst the waves, and he moves his search to the sands of the beach. Figuring John's exhausted—he's been out there for over two hours—Rodney checks over the few remaining groups on the beach and the single bodies lying prone under the fading sun. No John.

Sighing, he lowers the binoculars and rubs his eyes. It's not the first time John's disappeared on him this trip, and it probably won't be the last, but the incoming storm has Rodney's a bit more worried than usual. Not holding out much hope, he turns to the last place he expects to find his intrepid team leader. The jetty is about half a mile down the beach, just this side of the pier, and most evenings is populated with a few fisherman who pay no heed to the surf and sand or the approaching night as they cast out lines hoping for a bit or two that they can take home and clean for dinner. John's not usually one to be on the jetty at the close of the day, preferring to be barefoot on the beach. Bare feet and jagged rocks that hide the rusty remnants of the day's angler's hopes do not mix well.

There's movement at the end of the jetty, down close to the frothy waves. Rodney focuses the binoculars. A small smile plays about the corner of his mouth.

John's at the end of the pier, squatting down on the lower rocks, bare feet curled carefully over the edges, his spiky hair in tufts all around the snorkeling mask he's got propped on his head. He's frowning into a small pool of water left in the rock crevices by the outgoing tide. He reaches in and picks up a shell, and even with his binoculars Rodney can't really tell what it is. John lifts it up in the dying light, then, for some reason only he knows, puts it back in the water. He waits as another wave curls over the rocks, then reaches in again. Pulling his hand out, this time Rodney can see he has a five armed starfish.

He watches as John smiles and reaches behind himself to place the starfish in a small pail to his left. Rodney wonders briefly where he got the pail, then one of the kids John's befriended on this vacation wanders into view. Jake, Justin, Joey, something like that, Rodney doesn't remember. Names aren't that important to him, but the kid is almost a spitting image of John. Same tufty hair, same swarthy, sun-baked skin, same cocky grin. Same passion for the ocean, they even have the same eyes. Rodney remembers teasing John about being the kid's father from some long forgotten secret tryst. John had smacked him and rolled his eyes, saying, "Not hardly, McKay."

The first drops of the storms fall on the beach, and Rodney pulls the binoculars away from his face to glance out to sea. The heavy rains would hit the beach in moments, and with them the waves would get too high on the jetty. He looks back out in John's direction.

John and the teenager make their way off the jetty, their steps quick and light, sure over the slippery rocks. At the beach, they both jump down onto the soft sand and start running back to their gear. Rodney smiles as John keeps pace with a kid nearly 30 years younger than himself. They stop at John's surfboard, and John shakes the kid's hand, gives him a slap on the shoulder and waves him off down the beach. Then, as though sensing he was being watched, he turns toward the house and catches Rodney's eyes through the lenses of the binoculars. He winks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth, before turning to grab his board out of the clutches of the incoming waves.

"Hmph," Rodney mutters and lays the binoculars back down on the table as he heads back into the house.

The rain is falling in earnest on the beach now, a steady hiss of water on sand, and he pushes the French doors closed against it. Heading into the kitchen, he wonders what he can make for dinner that's quick and easy and will satisfy John, whose been surfing like he was twenty instead of over forty.

He's rifling through the freezer's contents when the French doors open and the sound of the rain and John coming in echo through the house.

"Miss me, McKay?" John asks coming into the kitchen.

"Only in so much as I'd hate to break in a new team leader if you got yourself killed out there on that death trap you call a surfboard," Rodney replies with equanimity. He pulls out two frozen pizza supremes. "Besides, how could I break the news to Ronon and Teyla that you offed yourself while I was busy relaxing on my vacation?"

John chuckles behind him, closer than he'd been a moment ago. "Aww, McKay, I didn't know you cared." He peers over Rodney's shoulder, and he smells of salt water and hours of sunshine. Rodney takes the opportunity to breathe him in. "Oh, pizza. I'm starving!"

Rodney smiles. "I figured." He grabs a glass from the strainer on the counter and empties some ices into it, then pours in some of the filtered water from the fridge. He hands it to John who takes it with a muttered, "Thanks," then proceeds to guzzle the whole thing down in less than ten seconds.

Rodney cocks an eyebrow. "More?"

John steps into his space, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Please," he says and holds out the glass.

Rodney pours him another glass, and watches, eyes wide, as John drinks the whole thing down again, slower this time, his eyes never leaving Rodney's face. When the ice slides to the lip of the glass and hits John in the nose, he finally lowers it to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Aaahhhh," he says, grinning.

Rodney's absolutely still, transfixed by the smooth line of John's throat, the lush pink of his lips, the wild sprigs of his hair. He swallows.

"You gonna cook those anytime soon," John asks.

"Cook what?"

He laughs. "The pizzas, McKay."

"What?"

"You know," John says, pulling said pizzas out of Rodney's lax grip, "Flat bread covered in sauce and sundry meats and veggies, topped with cheese? Pizzas?" He holds the frozen discs aloft.

Rodney gathers his wits. "Shut up. I know what pizzas are! Give me those." Turning away, he preheats the oven and opens the boxes. "There's beer in the fridge to go with these if you want."

John's quiet a moment longer than necessary to make such a simple choice, so Rodney turns to him, eyebrows raised. "Well?"

John sniffs. "I'm thinking about keeping a level head tonight, McKay."

Rodney chuckles and resumes opening the pizza packages. "Why? Are you planning on doing something you don't want to blame on alcohol?"

There's no smile on John's face, no touch of humor in his eyes. He softly whispers, "Yes."

It's not like Rodney didn't suspect this was coming. It's not as though they haven't been dancing around this moment for the better part of six years. It's not as though he would ever in his right mind turn John down if the offer ever explicitly came. He stopped what he was doing with dinner, one pizza out of its wrapper, the other waiting to be opened. "Before or after dinner?" he asked, back ramrod straight.

And damn, he'd forgotten just how quietly John could move when he wanted to. There's wet heat on his back, the salt smell of the ocean, the tangy musk of John after hard work or even harder play, and then there's the soft press of lips against his cheek as John asks, "Which do you prefer?"

Rodney doesn't know why John even bothered with the question, because he reaches around Rodney to turn the oven off before settling his arm at Rodney's waist, fingers sliding just beneath the edge of Rodney's pants.

Rodney leans into John's heat, and murmurs, "Now. Now's good." Then, as he turns in John's arms, "Dinner can fucking wait."

"Yeah," John agrees just before their mouths slide together.

It's awkward at first, neither of them used to each other in this way. John's mouth is a little too high, and Rodney's is a little too wide open, but they pull back, readjust, and it's almost perfect.

Rodney's never been one to like the taste of salt water on skin, and John didn't rinse off before coming inside. The rain didn't manage to clean all the salt off of his skin, and he tastes sharper than Rodney likes.

John hasn't kissed too many men in his lifetime, only enough to know that he prefers them to be clean shaven, and Rodney's not one to adhere to that sort of daily hygiene regimen, so his skin is rougher in patches than John likes, and the edges of his lips abrade John's, made more tender than usual by his recent sun exposure.

So the kiss is saltier and rougher than they'd like, but it's good. And it only gets better as they slip and slide against each other. Rodney opens his mouth, and the kiss goes deeper, more carnal.

John's hair is stiff with ocean water, crinkling audibly under Rodney's fingers as he curls his hands into fists, tugging John closer and closer still. But it softens slowly, the more Rodney runs his hands through it.

Rodney's skin is cool, having been ensconced in the air conditioning for the evening. But it warms under John's roaming hands, until it's flushed pink with heat.

Rodney pushes John backwards, muttering against his salty lips, "Bedroom...just...Jesus, got to get you naked."

John chuffs a laugh, and pulls at the drawstring on his shorts, letting the waist open wide so he can let them fall off his narrow hips. They hit the tiled floor with a sick sounding slap, and he steps out of them. "There."

Rodney pulls away and looks down John's body. It's far from perfect. John's an elite military commander in his mid-forties; there are scars, dimpled and lined, all over his torso and legs. His stomach isn't as flat as it probably was ten years ago, and Jesus his hips are bony, but he's beautiful. Dark and lush, soft springy hair all over. Rodney touches him, lays his hand in the middle of John's chest, and lets it skim over his body.

John swallows. "Rodney?"

Rodney looks up at him, and tilts his head, confused. "What?"

John waves a hand in Rodney's general direction. "Are you-"

"Oh," Rodney says decisively, "yeah. Definitely. Just let me..." he pulls his hand away from John's chest and tugs his shirt off over his head, tossing it across the living room. John smiles at the way the action leaves Rodney's hair in disarray. Then Rodney shoves his pants down over his hips, and, figuring that was the end of his concerted effort at stripping, he walks toward the bedroom, letting his pants fall as he goes, until they're round his ankles and he's got John at his bedroom door. He steps out of the pants, shoves John through the door, and onto the bed.

John rests his weight on his elbows and looks up at Rodney. "So. We're doing this." It's not a question.

"Yes," Rodney says, frowning. "I mean, you brought it up. I know...well...we've been circling this moment for a while, I think, and when you..in the kitchen...I thought...Unless you don't want to! If you've changed your mind....Please, God, don't have changed your mind."

Rodney lets his nervousness get the better of him and doesn't notice that he's wringing his hands together.

John sits up on the bed and takes Rodney's hands in his own, threading their fingers together. "Not changing my mind. I've wanted..." He shakes his head, smiling softly at his inability to articulate his thoughts. Finally, he looks into Rodney's eyes. "Now's good, Rodney." He runs a hand up Rodney's arm to rest on his shoulder. "Okay?"

Nodding, Rodney says, "Okay. Then...can I...I want to look at you." He cards his hand through John's hair, applying slight pressure to make John lie back down on the bed. "All of you."

John lies back on the bed and watches, eyes hooded beneath black eyelashes, as Rodney runs his gaze all over John's body. Rodney's attention is tangible. John feels it in the way his skin gooses up and his muscles pull tight beneath Rodney's scrutiny. After six years of wanting to be under that focus, John's drowning in it, immersed in Rodney's attention, and his body—his nerves—are lighting up like the circuits of Atlantis.

Rodney's eyes travel over his body and stop at his groin. John feels heat pooling in the center of him, his cock growing heavy and thick under Rodney's gaze. John arches his hips, seeking some touch, something real against his heated skin. "Please," he mutters, the word pulled from him unwillingly.

Rodney blinks and turns to catch his eye. "Can I touch you?"

John almost laughs at the absurdity of the question, but he manages a quick nod, words escaping him.

Rodney reaches out for him, and there is nothing tentative or unsure about the way Rodney takes him in hand.

"I've wondered, you know, what you'd look like naked," Rodney says. "You'll be happy to note that I entertained none of those romantic notions that you should be some perfect specimen of manhood, therefore end up disappointed when presented with the real thing. Empirically, I knew there'd be flaws. Scars. Extra weight, disproportions....but this," he whispers, leaning down and licking a stripe up the side of John's cock. "You're imperfect, John Sheppard." He kisses the head of John's dick, and John lets go a moan. "Imperfect and yet..." He gives a little tug, jacking John off a little slowly, fingers tightening around John's shaft. "I'd be hard pressed to find something or someone who is more pleasing to me, visually."

"Oh, god, Rodney, what-"

Then there are no more words, because Rodney goes silent as his hot wet mouth closes over John's cock, sliding down the length of it, tongue licking the ridge of the head. John's toes curl into the bedspread, and he curls one hand into a fist in the covers, while the other thrusts itself through Rodney's hair. He tries not to pull too hard as his fingers curl into a fist, but he doesn't succeed. Rodney moans around his dick at the sharp tug, and John loses it. His body convulses, and he curls up around Rodney's head, coming in short spurts into Rodney's mouth.

Rodney stays on him as his cock softens, sucking him gently through the aftershocks, until he's too sensitive, and he shudders under Rodney's mouth. "Off," he says.

Rodney sits up and wipes his mouth. "Well, that didn't take long."

That tears a laugh out of John, and he opens his eyes to say, "Give me break. It's been awhile."

"So what am I supposed to do with this?" Rodney asks, pointing down at his lap.

John chuckles again. "I could turn over," he says, voice low and dripped in satisfaction.

"Really?"

John sighs, long, lingering, easy. "Oh, yeah."

Rodney eyes him. "Something tells me you're not as new to this as I thought."

John shrugs, eyes closed.

"It's moot point anyway. I don't have anything here. And as tempting as your ass is, I'm not willing to go there without a lot of lubrication and at least two condoms—not at the same time," he clarifies off John's glare.

"No fucking, then?"

Rodney sighs mournfully. "No. Dammit."

John lays his hand on Rodney's thigh and strokes him, fingers light on Rodney's skin.

Rodney shivers anyway. "That's nice."

"I could..." John intimates, his hand sliding purposefully up Rodney's thigh.

Rodney's head falls back. He whispers, "Oh, that would be...yes, please...John."

John sits up and wraps his other hand around the back of Rodney's neck, and pulls him forward. He kisses Rodney slowly, gently, sliding his tongue over the seam of Rodney's lips while his other hand strokes up Rodney's thigh again. He takes Rodney's hard cock in hand and strokes him, slow and easy at first, fingers loose and teasing. Then Rodney moans and opens him mouth to John's tongue. The kiss goes dark, hungry, and Rodney slides his legs out from underneath him to lie down. John follows him, settling against him, deepening the kiss further.

Rodney spreads his legs, lifting one knee to give John more room to work his cock.

John slides his mouth along Rodney's jaw, biting gently at the curve of his jaw as he kisses his way to Rodney's neck.

"Oh, god, John," Rodney hisses when John bites down on the tendon in his neck, but arches into the kiss.

John eases the bite with another quick kiss. He tightens his grip around Rodney and jerks him a little faster, twisting his fist around Rodney's stiff cock. "You close?" John asks, breathy and humid in Rodney's ear.

"Tighter," Rodney says, thrusting into John's grip, the bedspread clutched tight in his fists. "Faster," he hisses.

"Okay...okay," John says, and moves further down Rodney's chest, kissing and biting along the way, until he can turn his head and watch the head of Rodney's cock sliding in and out of his fist. "That's..." he can't find words, so he gives Rodney's belly a quick nip with his teeth.

"Shit!" Rodney curses as his body arches off the bed. John bends down, lightening quick, and sucks Rodney's cock into his mouth as he comes. Surprised, Rodney lets out a startled shout.

John swallows as much of Rodney's fluid as he can, then pulls away, licking his lips. He strokes Rodney through his orgasm until Rodney pushes his hand away. "Enough, unh."

There's a bright flash of lightening followed by a low rumbling of thunder. Then the lights go out.

It's silent in the room, but for the heaviness of their breathing and the hiss of the driving rain outside.

John likes the quiet. Silently, he lies down next to Rodney and stretches his arm out across Rodney's stomach. He kisses the shoulder under his cheek.

Rodney's hand is in his hair again, nails scoring over his scalp lightly, and he shivers, pushing up closer against Rodney. He'd frown at himself for cuddling, but right then, in that moment, he really doesn't give a rat's ass about what he used to do or what he should be doing. He's comfortable, sated, and doesn't plan on moving an inch in the next few hours.

"You're heavier than you look," Rodney says to him, whisper soft in the quiet of the storm.

John should feel awkward. This whole situation is new and strange, and totally unintentional. But he's content, and that's worth something in and of itself. "You want me to move?"

Rodney holds him a little tighter. "Absolutely not."

John smiles, kisses Rodney's shoulder again, then settles back down. "I didn't think so," he says.

They both fall silent in the darkness, listening to the pounding waves under the rain.


End file.
